Xanos the Destroyer
by Jim Connor
Summary: The story of an original Eredar, Xanos, turned into a demon...only to find that he has retained his soul. When the Titans find out, they grant him gifts of their own, and charge him with the protection of Azeroth.
1. Prologue

This story is entirely fictional. All NPCs, and even the name Tyrael, are property of Blizzard. I do not own any of the intellectual properties.

That being said, this story is entirely possible, even with Blizzard's Warcraft lore. The story is set in the time of World of Warcraft, except for this initial prologue. This is my first REAL attempt at writing in story format, so any honest and helpful comments will be greatly appreciated.

* * *

The smell of death was in the air—it permeated around him, sinking into his robes, nearly singing his nostrils.

As Xanos walked amongst the burning huts and corpses of the fallen, he looked upon the destruction he had wrought with little more than apathy. There was no true meaning in this widespread slaughter, he knew. No purpose besides the unquenchable thirst for mass murder that drove his master. Xanos was but a pawn in his schemes—a valuable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless.

Archimonde would come on the morrow. He would bring his demons down to kill the remaining stragglers on this planet, and claim Xanos' work as his own. The master knew, though. He was well aware of Archimonde's scheming, but Sargeras allowed him to continue with it.

He had never liked Xanos. The Dark Titan saw something within this Eredar that was different than his other minions. Where the others reveled in the destruction, Xanos cared little for it all. Where his brethren used the fel arts, he did not. Even his appearance was different from the majority of his race. His scalp was round and smooth, lacking the raised and ridged brow inherent in his kind. His smooth, chiseled jaw lacked tendrils of any kind, and he had not a hair on his body. He was also relatively lanky, his muscles sculpted and toned, but lacking the bulk that was so common amongst his peers. In all, he looked much more like a strange variation of elf than an Eredar…but an Eredar he was.

He was powerful, as well...A creature of nearly pure shadow, closer to a priest, and far stronger than the majority of his people. This power caused the others to fear him, and because of this he was given the supposed "honor" of being the first to set foot on any new planet. This was little more than a poorly masked attempt from Archimonde to have the Eredar killed, as Xanos would have been the first choice to lead the armies of the Legion. It was nearly laughable to the Man'ari –or it would have been, if he cared enough to find the humor.

As he walked, he saw a small figure, curled into the fetal position in the corner of a destroyed hut. With an inward sigh, he walked towards the being, ready to deliver it into the arms of oblivion. Drawing nearer, a small realization came to him in the back part of his mind—this was a child. Sobbing and covered in soot, this child had seen the murders of countless people. Her people.

Training and 22,000 years of corruption told Xanos to kill the child outright. The darkness within him screamed at him to destroy this life form quickly, and be done with it. However, something else, something slightly stronger, made him hesitate. Dropping from his shadowform, he approached the child slowly, the smallest inkling of emotion apparent in his eyes.

As he neared, the child flinched, its sobbing breaking with absolute terror. Pursing his lips, Xanos spoke, almost comfortingly.

"Come here, child. You will not be killed, yet. There is little you could do to escape me, at any rate."

The child whimpered and rose slowly, trembling in fear. Xanos noted the long hair and the hints of feminine growth, deciding that this was a girl nearing the start of her adolescence. Small horns rose from the peak of her scalp, and from the bottom of her gown, he saw hooves. This girl was a Draenei…one of his people that escaped the corruption.

She stumbled to him slowly, her legs shaking in utter terror. She whimpered softly, sensing that her end was near, but facing it as bravely as she could.

Something awakened in Xanos that moment—something he believed long dead. For the first time in eons, compassion pushed its way to the surface, breaking his apathetic barrier, cracking the facade. Immediately the corruption within him began to battle this emotion, fighting to quell it, screaming at him to end this girl's life. He forced these feelings down, and offered her a small smile, his eyes changing from apathy to sincerity in a mere moment.

"I'm not going to kill you, child," he forced himself to say, the corruption seeking to force his hand, to prove him wrong. He was expecting any sort of response from her, from disbelief to hatred, perhaps an attempt to kill him, or herself. What he did not expect was her reaction, however.

The girl ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, crying into his chest.

Frozen with surprise at first, the corruption within Xanos reared its head again, attempting to control him, to strike her down. Fighting it down one final time, he stroked her hair softly, soothingly.

With this act, the unthinkable happened. The corruption, the ever-present force inside of him, the source of his power, and the power of all the Man'ari, died within him, and he was a mortal once again. Standing there with the young girl in his arms, the last remnants of the darkness cleared from his thoughts. Suddenly, in a flash of blinding light, he was gone, leaving the poor girl in the center of her destroyed home, and at the mercy of Archimonde the Defiler.

* * *

Heat. That was the first thing that registered in his mind—an unnatural sort of heat that felt as if it blistered him to his core. His eyes opened groggily, and he peered at his surroundings.

He was atop a mountain of sorts, on a cliff of nearly one thousand feet of sheer rock face. All below him was molten lava and granite, the occasional piece of architecture littering the land. The smell of sulfur weighed heavily in the air, and he could see elementals and a short, dark-skinned people patrolling the area.

How had he come to be here?

His eyes suddenly opened with shock as he realized he could remember _nothing._ Looking down at himself for what seemed the first time, he took note of the hooves, the tail, and the smooth, naked skin. He wondered what sort of being he was, and the word "Draenei" came to his mind. He spoke it aloud, pleased that he could speak at all. He felt a small comfort in the fact that he could speak, but it was far from enough to quell his rising panic. Who was he? Why couldn't he remember anything? And why was he here, of all places?

A small whisper in his mind came to the forefront of his thoughts. It offered wordless comfort, a soothing presence from another source. He could not understand the intentions of it, but one word came to him. "Tyrael."

He rose, shrugging off the fatigue and ache in his muscles and joints. After a short time, he mustered the strength to walk, but stumbled and fell—directly off the cliff before him.


	2. Chapter 1

The Blue Recluse was busy tonight. As Tyrael sat and sipped his wine in solitude, he eyed those around him in a bored manner. He had grown accustomed to the quiet, peaceful nature of his normal refuge, but it seemed the races of the Alliance were drawn to such places, and prone to making them as cacophonous as they possibly could.

_I suppose it can't be helped, _he thought forlornly. Such was the way of the world.

After the addition of the Draenei in the ranks of the Alliance, Tyrael was finally able to frequent the populated cities with little more than a few stares as he walked, warranted by his ivory skin and robes, and lack of hair or even the signature tentacles of the Draenei. The change in the overall attitude of the people was refreshing to him, having spent the past few millenia as a wandering outcast, helping those he could only to receive screams of terror in return. Now, he could sit comfortably in an inn located inside one of the largest cities in Azeroth with little to no altercation.

Of course, there were always those who were too small-minded to accept the people he so closely resembled.

Around him, he could hear raucaus banter, drunken party-goers enjoying this night, the first night of the annual Brewfest. As he sipped his wine on the upper level of the tavern, he could hear the beginnings of a bar fight down below. Sighing to himself, he set down his glass and rose from his seat, ready to step in before things became too violent. As he stood, however, it became clear to him that the violence had come to him. Before him stood a large human male, almost as tall as Tyrael himself, with wild black hair that made this man look like a wild animal rather than a man. He was wearing crimson armor, adorned with symbols that anyone could recognize on sight, and his beady eyes were narrowed to accompany his scowl.

_Scarlets. Of course. And an officer, to boot._

"Good evening," Tyrael said, attempting to placate the scowling Scarlet before him.

"Quiet, spacecow. What are you doing in a _human_ tavern?"

"Just enjoying a drink, my good man, much like anyone else here," he replied with a smile. The Scarlet's scowl deepened, hand moving to the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt.

Tyrael's smile widened, waving a hand in what seemed to be a dismissive manner. The Scarlet's scowl dissolved, his face going slack. "Now," said Tyrael, "I believe you were going to buy me another wine, aye?"

The slack-faced Scarlet nodded slowly. "Aye. That I was, friend Draenei."

Tyrael sat back in his chair, handing his glass to the Scarlet with an amused look in his eye. "Wonderful. The Pinot Noir will do nicely."

The blank-faced Scarlet took the glass, and made his way downstairs without a word. As he left, Tyrael noticed another man across the pavilion, drinking what appeared to be water. This man was…different. Even from across the room, his high elven ancestry was apparent, though the untrained eye wouldn't see it. Long red hair, pulled back in a foxtail, cascaded down the back of blue robes. The man's face was chiseled, somewhat thin, but it was hidden behind a trimmed red beard. Eyes of the brightest blue peered out from underneath a high brow, staring into Tyrael's own bright jade. In that moment, Tyrael could feel the man's inner strength, and knew that he had met an equal.

The man arose, carrying his glass to Tyrael's table and sitting down without an invitation. "No small feat, mind controlling a paladin of Jungner's stature," he said, a small smile playing across his lips.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, friend," replied Tyrael offhandedly.

"Oh, come now. The man was ready to kill you, and none here would have questioned it, nor had the bravery to report it."

"What of you? You don't strike me as the kind to quiver in fear from the Scarlets, hmmm?"

The man looked amused by Tyrael's words. "Aye, I do not fear them. But I wouldn't much care to step in, or even report the incident, for that matter."

Tyrael eyed the man curiously, not the slightest bit upset by his words. The stranger only returned his gaze with an amused look. The paladin returned with Tyrael's wine, setting it on the table before him. Tyrael shooed him away, and without a word, the paladin left.

"Where is he going now, if you don't mind my asking?" The man inquired, amusement still shining in his azure eyes.

"I sent him to the Steppes to climb a mountain. About halfway up, he'll come to with no memory of how he got there."

The two of them shared a look, and both simaltaneously burst into uncontrollable laughter. After a few moments, the human wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling, before extending his hand to Tyrael. "My name is Malkor. Malkor Xalocient. And it's a pleasure."

Tyrael took his hand in a firm shake with a smile. "Tyrael. And the pleasure is mine, Malkor, I assure you."

Malkor nodded once, and brought his hand to chin to scratch it thoughtfully. "Tell me, Tyrael…what are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Malkor leaned forward, and stared intently at Tyrael. "Well, you wield priestly magics, but you behave quite differently than most of your kind. You appear to be a draenei, but you lack the standard features of your race. You speak as if you've spoken common for decades, without the accent I've grown accustomed to hearing from the draenei, and your skin feels more akin to marble than flesh." He leaned back in his chair and conjured another water in a crystal goblet. "So I'll ask again…what are you?"

Tyrael silently cursed himself. He should have known this man would be so observant. Only someone with a superior intellect could have achieved such power in so short a life span. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, lies to tell or half-truths, but he was certain this man—this mage—would see through all of them. Thus it was that he decided on the truth.

"I have no recollection of who or what I am, nor how I came to be on this world," he began to explain slowly. "Over three thousand years ago, I awoke on a mountainside with no memories aside from my name, and a basic understanding of the Light."

Malkor looked surprised. "Three thousand years, you say? My, but that is quite a bit of time."

"Aye."

"And what have you done in that time, if I may be so bold to ask?"

Tyrael smirked slightly. "I have studied. As I'm sure you can sense, I am a master of my arts. I hold dominion over both the Light and the Shadow."

The human chuckled mirthfully. "Aye, and you're so humble it brings a tear to my eye!"

Tyrael smiled to himself. "Being humble is simply a deception to hide your talents from others until it is necessary to surpass them."

Malkor nodded, the remnants of laughter still in his eyes. "I suppose you're right about that, my friend." He tapped his chin, looking thoughtfully at the draenei across from him. "Would you care to come by here again tomorrow night? There's someone else I'd like you to meet."

Tyrael sighed inwardly. The people of Azeroth seldom interested him, and he had long ago vowed to never become involved in their relationships. Still, this man across from him piqued his interest, and struck him as someone he could very easily get along with. After a few moments of deliberation, he finally replied with a simple nod.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Malkor, "Quiv will be…well, not delighted, but certainly interested in meeting you. It should be eventful, at the very least." He rose suddenly, blue robes billowing behind him as he turned from the table. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "Until tomorrow, then." And with that, he vanished.

Tyrael sat in silence for a time, finishing his glass of wine slowly. Finally, he rose with a sigh, and took one last glance at those enjoying the Brewfest. After a moment, he cloaked himself in shadows, vanishing completely.


	3. Chapter 2

The wind was strong that evening. It blew fast and cold, battering anything it came across, living or not, leaving even the toughest of dwarven bodies with a frostbitten blue tinge. It was an unholy, freezing gust. A wind which could have only originated in one place in this titan-forsaken world: The dead wastes of the North.

The reminder was nearly too much, and soon, Malkor found himself lost in reminiscence.

* * *

The desolate figure, clad in a jacket and pants of average quality yeti fur, pulled his almost pathetically bland, gray cloak tighter around himself. Even the light tinge of bright red aura around the outline of his body signifying a passive heating spell being present on his person, along with all the furs his money had bought him, seemed to fail to completely keep the piercing frost from chilling his very soul in this most deserted of lands.

Not for the first time that day, an arachnid composed of green ooze and decaying flesh burst forth from the ground not even 10 paces from where the traveller now stood. Only a moment later, the carcass of the unnatural monstrosity twitched in the throes of death; the magical blue flames which engulfed its body providing the only evidence of what had occurred. Watching his spell engulf his undead assailant, the mage who dared brave the deadened snows of Northrend felt compelled, once again, to ask himself if this journey was a wise one—if the reward was worth the end which was likely to meet him should he be bested by anything he met here. Yet again, he answered his own question by marching on silently.

The man knew that he was almost clear of the worst place on this continent of horror, the tinge of green on the horizon signifying the border of Icecrown—the place where he could gain some respite from the undead which had followed him tirelessly for days now. Though he had always considered himself an old soul, he knew that this voyage had washed away whatever was left of his youth and innocence.

A stronger wind blew suddenly, spraying snow and ice on his young-looking face and forcing his cloak to billow chaotically behind him. While attempting to bring his cowl under control, a bright red stone slipped from the man's grasp, falling on to the snow without a sound audible over the wind. Even seeing the red gem, annoyance filled the wizard's thoughts—annoyance that he needed to risk so much to obtain this trinket, and annoyance that the very weakest of Draenei or Night Elf could live a hundred of his lifetimes without the slightest effort.

As he bent to retrieve the item, a thunderous crack in the very air around the lone sorcerer suddenly threw him to the ground, his ears ringing painfully.

"You thought you had managed to escape, foolish mortal?" The soulless voice pierced air and soul alike with a cold that even the iciest wind of Northrend could not match. The hollowness of it matched the cold look of the armoured man who stood as its owner; The Lich King.

The traveller stood up slowly, his body shivering from cold and unholy terror that even the greatest heroes would struggle to completely ignore. He did not answer. Perhaps some would have taken it as a mark of fear, but honestly there was simply nothing to say and energy would be wasted doing so. He would need that energy, every bit of it, and he knew it.

Perhaps he was arrogant, thinking that the experience and power he had gained in his dangerous travels of the past few years would suffice in challenging the most powerful being on Azeroth in the heart of his domain, but he knew that the alternative was to make a deal of a kind that he was not prepared to make. Whatever else, he would live or die a free man.

"Will you not answer the King in his Kingdom after stealing his very heart?" The soulless voice uttered after a moment of silence, almost seeming to make fun of the man. "Then Death is all that awaits you." He finished as his hand, almost in slow motion, moved to draw the soul-rending blade which rested at his hip.

As the unholy blade, Frostmourne, came free of its scabbard, the mage, who seemed so pathetically small in comparison to his opponent, looked only more defiant. Still without a word, he raised his arms and began to weave as a spell of unnatural flames.

The King of the Dead seemed unperturbed, not quickening his movements despite the threat. Perhaps he did not consider it a threat at all. Taking a step forward, he didn't even flinch as the burning arcane hit him square in the chest in an explosion of bright sparks, not unlike a goblin firework one would see during the Lunar Festival.

As the smoke cleared, the appearance of a burn that seemed to have eaten through his armour and burnt the skin forced even the Lich King himself to put on a frown of surprise. Perhaps he still kept the vain and pride of the Prince who he once was and had failed to account for the chance that such a young human had the raw power to damage him. Not that the damage in question was significant enough to slow him. Without missing a beat, the Undead Lord walked towards the mage and swung his cursed sword violently as though meaning to punish the impudence of even attempting to fight back.

Only an agile dodge, coupled with the skilled split-second conjuration of a mana shield, saved the Mage from certain death—or worse, undeath. The mage stumbled backwards as his shield, once hailed as one of the strongest his archmage teacher had ever witnessed done by someone his age, shattered into a million threads of now-useless arcane and dissipated into the atmosphere. Tortured voices filled his head with agony; the voices of thousands of souls taken by the Frostmourne. If this was what it felt like to be almost cut by the blade, he did not wish to find out what letting it pierce his flesh would do.

Only thanks to his unbreakable will the young mage kept enough wits to notice that the Lich King began to raise his weapon for a second blow. He did not have the strength or position to stop this one. Desperately, fear of undead servitude on his mind, he abandoned any thoughts of recovering the artifact, which he had gone through so much to steal, from the snow where it still lay. Trying not to allow panic to cloud his thoughts, he began to weave a teleportation spell to Stormwind. His only thought: escape.

As the arm of the Lich King fell, the distance between the mage and the deadly sword decreasing with every moment, the young man who had dared invade the land of Death realised one thing. There wasn't enough time to take himself away to Stormwind; he had miscalculated.

With desperation the mage's mind searched for a way out, even as braced for his soul to join those that cried within the depths of Frostmourne. He would always remember this as the day that taught him how easily arrogance and weakness can take away the dreams of the unprepared; and how easily a bit of luck can save them.

Frostmourne struck the place where the cloaked figure had just huddled, about to die. Only a wave of snow and ice sprayed into Arthas' face, announcing that the figure in question no longer occupied that space. The last thing the mage remembered hearing was the emotionless, cold voice echoing again and again in his head; louder then all the tortured screams which still filled it…

"Death claims all in due time…"

* * *

Malkor Xalocient blinked as a rough, loud voice from a table nearby interrupted the memory that the unusually cold gust of wind, which had invaded through an open window, had brought on. Malkor sat with a thoughtful expression at his favorite table within his usual haunt, The Blue Recluse, waiting for that mysterious man who called himself Tyrael to show up. It was a fair bit quieter tonight, owing mostly to the grand opening of some competing tavern across the street. Even so, there were still a fair few people in the building, some of whom Malkor recognised as regulars. He applauded those. Loyalty, even simple loyalty such as that of a customer to a tavern which has faithfully served him for years, was commendable.

"Did you hear, the king is mobilising a regiment to send to Northrend?" Sitting at a nearby table, the greying man who spoke had the clean shaven face and well exercised physique of a soldier. In all likelihood a member of the Stormwind Guard, , Malkor judged silently.

"What in the fel for? I hear there's naught but ice and death itself to find up there." The other man across from him was nearly his opposite: Unshaven, lacking a single gray hair and sporting a rather cheap sword at his hip. Definitely not a soldier and, judging from the volume of his voice, this was the one that had interrupted Malkor's thoughts.

"With the war in Outland over I hear the nobles have convinced his majesty to 'scout out' the North. See if we can nip this so called Undead King in the arse, so to speak, before he can attack us first." The guard clenched his hand into fist, "The bastard needs to die for what he did in Lordaeron."

Malkor smiled a little at the overheard conversation. So, everything was moving along nicely. The whispers that he himself started had amplified into calls for the destruction of the scourge. Varian Wrynn was of course undervaluing the power of the Lich King—a single regiment wasn't possibly going to be enough. However, even that was part of Malkor's plans. As soon as the threat of this attack reached Arthas' ears—as Malkor had assured it did by speaking a bit too loudly in front of Count Favian, who was a bit closer to the cult of the damned than most knew—Arthas would be forced to prematurely unleash the invasion Malkor knew he had been planning. The incomplete invasion force would fail to destroy Stormwind, but would be devastating enough to whip the Stormwind leadership into a full scale invasion of Northrend.

Taking a slow sip of the conjured crystal goblet of pure water in front of him, Malkor leaned back embracing the warmth of the hearth nearby. All that was left now was for nothing to go wrong. He nearly laughed out loud. Only a fool assumed such a thing.


End file.
